


Empty

by mrsfrankensteinwinchester



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11716968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsfrankensteinwinchester/pseuds/mrsfrankensteinwinchester
Summary: Prepare for the Angst Train! Beta-ed by my darling Shelby, thank you!I hope you enjoy this little Story. ;)





	Empty

**Author's Note:**

> Prepare for the Angst Train! Beta-ed by my darling Shelby, thank you!  
> I hope you enjoy this little Story. ;)

* * *

 

_**S**_ ometimes, he thinks of her and for an instance it is like nothing has ever changed. She is there, right beside him. He senses her presence. The familiar scent of her perfume is in the air. Her laugh echoes through the empty flat. He smiles, follows it, leans against the door frame of the bathroom. They are brushing their teeth, making faces in the mirror. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun. She is wearing one of his shirts. He closes his eyes for a moment. The giggling is slowly fading away. When he opens them again, there is only silence. He is alone. Slowly, he closes the bathroom door and walks over to his chair, trying to steady his breathing.

Mrs Hudson still brings up two cups of tea each morning, he tries to ignore the other cup, her cup, thinks about tossing it against a wall, but at the end of the day, it is still there. Empty. Mrs Hudson apologizes each night, teary-eyed, telling him that she does not intend to pour salt on to the open wounds but she just cannot leave the cup downstairs. It hurts her too much. He nods, understands, admits that he still prepares a cup of tea for her as well.

They are worried, of course. He barely leaves his flat, only takes cases he once called dull, quickly solves them via mail. John stops by, makes sure that he is not taking anything. He understands the grief of his friend, gives him the space. Sometimes, he brings Rosie. They play for a while. For a while, he forgets the sorrows, the pain. But everything comes back to him when Rosie asks for Aunt Molly, starts crying. And then he is crying too. John fast takes Rosie, goes upstairs, tries to calm her. Sherlock sits on the floor, tries not to think about her, but it is too late already.

* * *

 

_She is sitting on the couch, while he is writing a new blog entry._  
  
_“What do think about kids?” she asks, playing with a strand of her hair._  
  
_His head darts up and he looks at her. “They are quite annoying, well some of them are, Rosie is an exception of course.”_  
  
_“I meant what do you think about us having kids?” her eyes lock with his.He furrows a brow. To be honest, he had never thought about starting a family._  
  
_She smiles, “It is all right if you do not want to have any.”_  
  
_He blinks, taken back to reality by her soft voice. “I never said that. Actually, Miss Hooper, I would love to have kids.”_  
  
_Her smile widens and she gets up from the couch, unbuttoning the shirt she is wearing while walking over to the bedroom. “I am tired.” she says. Winks before closing the door behind her. He puts the laptop aside as fast as possible, following her eagerly._

* * *

 

When he opens his eyes again it is dark outside. He gets up from the ground. John has left a note on the kitchen table. He reads it and pours himself a cup of tea. It is cold. Her cup is still there, untouched. He leaves it there, suppressing the urge to fill it, so that it is not empty anymore. Instead, he goes back into the sitting room, grabs a book. He gets lost in the pages, a tragic love-story unwinds in front of his eyes. He is reading one of her books, of course. He had never understood her obsession with trashy literature but as he is diving deeper into the story, learning more about the characters, he has to admit that he somehow enjoys the book. He finishes it within three hours.  
  
The clock strikes midnight when he lies down. He stares at the ceiling. His hand is resting on the empty space next to him. He tries not think about her, but a moment later, he already feels her fingers brushing against his, caressing his skin by drawing soft circles on the back of his hand. Her mouth pressing against his knuckles. He falls asleep when the sun rises. The memories of her slowly fading into a blur.

* * *

 

_“Sherlock.”_  
  
_He blinks. She is hovering above him, a wide smile on her lips. She is hiding something behind her back as she leans down to press a kiss to his lips. Hers taste like peppermint. He grins and wraps his arms around her waist, drawing her down to him. She squeals._  
  
_“What are you hiding?” he asks and rolls them over, so that he is the one hovering above her._  
  
_She clenches her fists. “Left or right?”_  
  
_He musters her for a second, chuckling lowly. “Left.”_  
  
_She opens her palm. Empty. “Try again.”_  
  
_“Very funny, Miss Hooper. Right, then.” he says._

* * *

 

His eyes flutter open. There is a lump in his throat. He gets up and rushes to the bathroom; vomits. He leans against the bathtub, ignores the sound of his phone ringing. His legs are shaking when he gets up. He is thirsty. He enters the kitchen and his heartbeat stops for a second: one cup.  
He hurries downstairs barefoot, bursts into Mrs Hudson's flat.  
  
“Where is it?” he asks, wide-eyed, before storming to her kitchen.  
  
“What are you talking about, Sherlock?” she is worried and slightly frightened.  
  
He walks from cupboard to cupboard, rips the doors open rather violently. “Her cup!” he exclaims and slams the door of the last cupboard shut.  
“Where is it?” he repeats.  
  
Mrs Hudson draws in a sharp breath. “It is all my fault.” she says and sinks down on to a kitchen chair.  
  
“It is broken.” he deduces and leaves the flat without looking behind.

He does not understand why he so emotional over a cup. In the end, it was just a piece of porcelain. But then again, it was so much more. It was _hers_.  
He stares at the single cup on the kitchen table. Empty. Lonely.

* * *

 

_The sound of music wakes him up. She is dancing around the kitchen, singing along. He watches her, smiles. When she spots him she stretches out her hand.  
_

_“Dance with me, Mister Holmes.” she says. He rolls his eyes playfully before taking her hand, drawing her close to him. They waltz through the kitchen. She follows his lead, rests her head against his chest._  
  
“I love you,” he mumbles and presses a kiss to the top of her hair.  
  
_“I know.”_

* * *

 

The silence is deafening. He walks over to the radio, turns it on, full volume. The melody of a famous pop song fills the room. He stands there in the middle room, tapping his feet along to the beat. When the song ends, he turns the radio off again. His phone rings, he answers it.  
  
“Mycroft.”  
  
“I am glad to hear your voice again, Sherlock.” he sounds sincere.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“I- I just wanted to make sure that you are all right.”  
  
“Do not worry, brother dearest, I am not using.” he hangs up.

He composes, well, he tries to. But the melody does not sound right. It is too melancholic, but that is not what he wants. He wants it to be happy, up-beat, joyful like the songs they danced to. After an hour of scribbling notes on to a piece of paper he gives up, puts the violin aside. Sighing, he sinks down into his chair. For the flicker of a second, he thinks about the box under his bed, but he banishes it from his mind immediately.

* * *

 

_“Marry me.”_  
  
_“What?” she nearly drops the glass of water in her hands._

  
_“I said: Marry me!” he raises his voice a little. A smug grin on his face._

  
_She rolls her eyes. “I heard you the first time.”_  
  
_He gets down on one knee in front of her, opens the small velvet box he is holding. “Molly Hooper. I love you. I could not imagine a life without you. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” He looks up at her. Tears are shimmering in her eyes. He is worried._  
  
_“I – of course! Get up here.” she says and puts the glass of water aside before pressing a tender kiss to his lips. “I love you.” she whispers._  
  
_“I know.”_

* * *

 

He eyes the ring on his finger. He is still wearing it. Sometimes he thinks about putting it away, but he cannot bear to do it. His body trembles. Exhaustion. He forces himself up, stands shakily on his feet before walking over to the door of his flat. He puts on his coat; nearly falls down the stairs. Outside, he hails a cab, exchanges a few words with the driver.

The cemetery is well visited. He hurries past the mostly elder people. Slows down when he spots her grave. A bouquet of flowers; yellow daffodils. He swallows heavily, lays his own flowers beside them; red roses, thirteen exactly; one for each year he got to spend with her.  
He kneels in front of her grave stone, brushes it clean. He feels a hand on his shoulder, does not dare to look up.  
  
“Sherlock, you have to move on.” she squeezes his shoulder.  
  
“No. This all my fault.”  
  
He hears her sigh. Turns his head to look at her. She is wearing the summer dress they had bought together in Italy. He stares up at her lovingly. Her eyes are filled with tears. He reaches forward, wants to wipe the ones that are rolling over her cheeks away.

“Excuse me, Sir? Is everything okay?”

She is gone again.

“Yes, thank you. Everything is fine.” he says and turns around.

* * *

 

He is at home again. The silence is going to kill him, he is sure. He hums a melody; their wedding-waltz. Then, he is up to his feet, dancing through the sitting room, alone. Mrs Hudson opens the door a little, watches him, cries silent tears.  
He is lost in his thoughts; she is in his arms, gazing up at him and for an instance it is like nothing has ever changed.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Reviews are love! <3


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